The Luna Letters
by The Spectrum Sings
Summary: The art of love letters is a tricky business, especially when you're not even sure who you want to send them to. Muggle AU. Luna/Hermione, Luna/Harry, Hermione/Fleur.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi. :) **

**I am sorry if anyone is awfully out of character (feel free to point out where and I'll fix it, maybe?) and I am sorry that I have been too lazy to give Fleur a French accent, but you can always imagine she has one. I kind of feel self conscious about posting this, which hasn't happened for a while... in conclusion, be nice? :P Happy reading. **

**Hermione's point of view:**

She's ever so beautiful and I am plain. I wonder if that is how Jane Eyre felt: _plain._Imperfect. Unworthy. Except really, she was worthy, she was such a brilliant character, more than that. Reading her reminded me of old souls, of the deep wisdom shining between the eyes of glorious people. The only odd part is that she would end up with Mr. Rochester, because of course; you don't marry someone of a different gender, that's foolish. Women marry women and men marry men and babies are grown in tubes by our skilled scientists to be given to a welcoming, happy family. There have been one or two cases of females liking males and males liking females in the media but they all except the truth eventually. I suppose it sounds mean, but this is just the way the world works. I know it sounds mean actually. I suppose people should be more excepting. It's hard to think that, let alone say it. _This_ is just the way the world works. It's altered and changed and separate from what some of us think. It's easy to think that love is love. But love has never been any different; it has been this way always. It is not easy to really believe a man can love a woman. It is not easy for people who are so used to the customary ways believe.

The corridors here remind me of alley ways behind cramped housing as I wind through them. They are stuffy and sometimes brick, sometime concrete, sometimes painted on and vandalised with beautiful acrylic designs or quotes from books. It's the first day back and term always starts on a Sunday or a Saturday so we can have the weekend to sort out our rooms and such. It's an aged, elderly building, with stain glass windows in every room of the ground floor. Sometimes the building looks as if it sags a little under the weight of its inhabitants. The strain is from the two towers that linger towards the back of the school. Towers are the dorms and are mixed. You can swop roommates if you want but people tend to become friends and stay put. Not everyone, of course, because when you are eleven and thrown into a room of people that aren't even necessarily your own age, there can be problems. Luna and Fleur are my roommates here at St Thomas Creek Prep School. Our school gets referred to as either 'The Creek' or 'Old Tom's' by the students. Neither of which make us sound like a well respected school of the arts. The school is split into six sections. The first section being the dorms, the rest is split into North, East, South, West and centre. North side is art—the painters, the drawers, the students with chalk on their faces and paint brushes behind their ears, acrylic paint stained clothing and charcoal stained fingers. East side is the music rooms—band geeks, singers, guitar carries, flute players, and drug stick twirls. South side is dance—girls and boys with ballet shoes, tap shoes and street dance. West side is theatre—dramatic wails, spot lights, costumes and applause. The centre of the school consists of the lunch room and Literacy arts—students who can quote _every_poem, who think Shakespeare is their best friend, who have piles of books, notes and special access to the library.

It is surprising how much the sections interlink and mingle. Our arts connect and associate, and some students take more than one course here anyway, and so have to bond with more than one group. Fleur takes ballet and singing. She tends to sing in French and so is not part of a band, although she sometimes skips lunches to sing with the choir or wood instruments. It doesn't seem surprising for Fleur to be a ballet dancer; she stereotypically looks like one. I take Literacy arts; my section of our room is filled with piles of famous literature. Luna is a painter and artist in general. She creates the most beautiful, shockingly realistic paintings in water colours and soft pastels.

Luna is so perfect. I wonder if she knows. I doubt it. Who looks in the mirror and sees themselves as perfect? Everyone is so insecure, so _ugly_ in today's society. I know, because when I look in the mirror, I see ugly too. But when Luna looks in the mirror, I want her to know she is loved and she is beautiful. So many hints and pauses and slithers of perfection make Luna beautiful. The way her shoulders shift in her slumber, the way the moonlight ignites the silver blonde of her hair, the pauses between the words and smoke that emanate precociously from her mouth. If I had any preconceived notions about love, they were all dissipated upon the feeling that crawled under my skin and slept there for several winters. I wish I could love Luna partially or in jubilant reminiscence of a chemical youth, but I love Luna ever-presently, ever-consciously, and ever-painfully. Painfully because it is clear to all, she does not feel the same about me.

What is not clear is who she cares for in the deep, unfathomable, beautiful way of love. But it is Luna and she is so delicate and amazingly peculiar. I don't want to ruin her bubble of loveliness and splendour. I couldn't bear for the splendour to fall. It would be no benefit to have Luna worrying about who she glances at, who she smiles with, and who she loves. I just hope they deserve her love. But it still feels like heart break and misfortune to be so in love with one of my best friends and have her oblivious. Maybe she isn't oblivious. Maybe she will simply never feel the same.

Entering my room, I see Fleur, asleep. It's two in the afternoon on a Sunday. The curtains are pulled shut and September sun is leaking through like water, finding any gap or hole to slip through. This is normal Fleur behaviour for weekends: sleeping alone all day or with anyone willing. I mean this with all the affection possible. Fleur is so different from Luna and yet somehow, we are all surprisingly close. I suppose it has been because from a young age we have been roommates. Fleur was twelve, I was eleven, and Luna was ten. Not liking one another would be a problem. Lately, our liking one another has become a problem. Maybe not noticeable yet. My liking of Luna is bound to change things. And slowly, the way Luna and Fleur act together is changing. It is as if a stirring hint of dislike is swimming between them for reasons I am unsure of. I think about shaking Fleur awake and explaining my Luna problem. But Fleur would demand coffee and I don't feel like making any. But I have never felt this way. I have never felt this way about a person. Luna makes things different now, my feelings make things different. And I need someone to talk to. When I see Luna, when my eyes meet her sapphire gems, the ocean seems small, the sky seems close, and the universe is no longer infinite. For that moment, it's just Luna and I and the unending yearning that lingers between us. Between us, but only from myself. But I will wait for Luna. I will always wait for Luna. How can I not what my heart flutters in her presence?

Fleur yawns, coughs, mutters about coffee and sleeps again. It is cute really; her little meow yawns and arms struggling for something to cuddle against. She is beautiful too. Her beauty is so much more obvious than Luna's. Fleur is the flower, the rose, the obvious, stunning beauty that turns heads. Her eyes are azure and cobalt and sky, mixed together in a swirling vortex. Her hair is pale, light, like sunshine. Her features are elegant and graceful. She walks with her head held high and her hips swaying. Fleur is secure in her beauty to any onlooker. Self possessed, assured, poised and confident. Their differences are so very diverse and yet Luna and Fleur are what I would class as my 'best friends.'

"Hermione?" Fleur mutters sleepily. "What are you doing?" You would think it wasn't my room too, but Fleur means well. Her voice reminds me of a melody; it has the air of a crafted, fragile, faint song. I consider telling Fleur it is Monday and she is missing singing class but decide it would be cruel, besides, she wouldn't believe me. She always knows when I am lying. I don't know how she does it, she watches my eyes closely, and just knows. She can read me so well. I am not sure if she can read me better than Luna, but Luna can just read everyone. She spends so much time just _listening_ and watching that emotions and reactions become a second language of hidden speech to her. Maybe I am just Fleur's hidden speech, my words trapped inside my expressions.

"I was just getting a book, carry on sleeping." I say quickly. I drop ungracefully onto my neatly made bed.

"You could always join me instead." She suggests teasingly. I roll my eyes. I am used to Fleur's easy flirting and make nothing of it. Sometimes, her eyes seem doubtful, and I wonder how much she really means the words she says.

"No thanks." I tell her. She smirks at me. But it is more than that. I have always felt that Fleur has liked me more than Luna. Sometimes, the way she looks at me... It is something I must be imagining.

"You know you want to really." Fleur coos. "Come on, Hermione, live a little."

Luna wanders in midsentence. I think that if you hold my heart up to your ear you might hear the sea. Waves crest behind my eyelids and crash against my cheekbones. My lungs are filled with salt air in the coldest of winters and the darkest of days. And behind the cage of my rib bones you'll find coral reefs and sea urchins among the debris. You can dive to endless depths and never see quite all of me. I think that if you hold my heart up to your ear, you might hear the sea. That is what Luna does, and that is what Luna does not know. I do not miss the glare, an almost jealous, abhorrence that Fleur throws casually in Luna's direction. Luna has a lack of concern and indifference about her as she comes to a pause beside my bed where I am seated.

Luna looks tired. Her silvery blonde hair is straggly, waist-length and dirty blonde, and her protuberant eyes are bruised with the tales of nightmares. I want to reach for her, hold her, stroke her hair. Instead I pat her hand in a friendly way. Fleur's eyes follow my movements. I can't bring myself to considering meaning behind her glances.

"What's wrong?" I ask Luna as she sits down on her own bed. Our room is a rectangle. The door is on one wall and opposite that is Fleur's bed, with Luna's on one side and mine on the other. A window with a wide ledge sits above each of our head boards. An oak wardrobe runs alone the small width of wall on Luna's side, and on my side runs a white painted bookshelf, overflowing with texts on everything there is to know.

Fleur sighs dramatically and yanks the covers over her head. I do not understand. Luna seems to understand.

"It's obvious." She says dreamily, yet with a hint of something simply _more_in her voice. Luna kicks off her shoes and crawls under her own covers. She stitched them herself, sunset orange flowers, daisies and lime green twirling leaves. It took her months.

"Piss off." Fleur snaps from under her mauve covers. I do not know what to make of this. Instead, I distance myself from their tension to fiddle under my pillow, drawing out a battered copy of _Alice in Wonderland._Luna simply watches, as she does, and then pulls the covers over her face. Telling people to 'piss off' isn't something new for Fleur, but telling Luna or I to piss off is. It feels as if whatever was between them is spreading.

"What's obvious?" I ask, skimming though the pages of my book, too curious to read now.

"How Fleur feels." Luna says, her face almost hidden, just her eyes visible. A second later, Fleur's pillow slaps her in the face. Luna looks like a scared deer, scrambles upwards and then suddenly she laughs. And Fleur chuckles. And they both just look at me. Does Fleur like Luna I wonder, panicked? Maybe their tensions are because Fleur likes Luna. Maybe that is why Fleur has been acting strange. Or maybe she is jealous... But I do not know who likes Luna (other than myself) and so there is surely no one for Fleur to be jealous of. Or maybe she is jealous of Luna for who _likes_ her. I imagine a random girl, a faceless being wondering the corridors, throwing smiles in Luna's direction. I wonder if my skin tints green.

"You're meant to be the smart one." Fleur says.

"You figure it out." Luna finishes. This is what makes me remember that they share a friendship too and it is not just I that links them. They understand the other, even with annoyance. Their idea of my needing to figure it out is shared. I hate supposedly being the smart one. I'm not the prettiest. I'm _not_ the smartest. I'm not the funniest. I'm not the most popular. I'm not the most exciting. I'm definitely not the most personable. I'm just average. And I'm sick of being average. It's not fair. I imagine my mother, and I imagine her knowing words. I imagine her coming out with something like: "You're going to be someone someday. You're going to tilt the world on its axis and show the sun how it can really shine and you're going to grow old, loved and adored and one day, you're going to be able to look back and say _yeah, that was me_." And I imagine myself nodding and agreeing and putting on a brave face and getting back to school and crying.

"What about you two?" I ask. "Did you have an argument?" Luna and Fleur exchange glances. They have obviously decided not to tell me whatever is wrong.

"I'm fine." They say together, obviously accidentally. The sounds overlap.

"Bullshit." I inform them.

It is seventeen minutes past two on a Sunday afternoon and my two best friends have just lied to me.

I close my book and crawl under my covers. Fleur peers her head out and quietly asks for her pillow back. Luna's footsteps pad across the floor. I listen to her steps. I listen to Fleur's breathing. I wonder what would happen if I ever replied to Fleur's teasing. I wonder what would happen if I ever took her seriously. Because suddenly I want her to have been serious. I shiver and try and remember _Alice in Wonderland_ quotes.

"Fleur? Hermione?" Luna whispers. We both shuffle up into sitting positions and Luna sits on the end of my bed. She is looking mostly at Fleur.

"I have something to tell you. It might make you hate me more in one way and less in another." Fleur looks at me and I shrug. We are both lost in Luna's secrets. "It's about Harry." I place a face to the name quickly. Harry is a dark haired green eyed boy in my year. He attends some of my piano classes. He is in Luna's advanced art class. Harry Potter. He's nice, he's funny, he spends a lot of time with a ginger boy named Ron.

"I like Harry and he likes me too. I know it's wrong, but I can't help how I feel." She says determinately. At once I am proud of her. I am also broken. I wonder what made her tell us this. I can tell it has somehow helped whatever was tearing at Fleur and Luna's friendship. I don't question how.

"I saw him a lot over the holidays. And in the car park today, we went behind some of the vans to talk. His hand gently brushed the hair off my neck and my breath froze in my chest, and every sense seemed hyper alert. It was so strange. His hand stroked my hair again, so softly, and then trailed across my neck and shoulder and down my back, making me shiver. I looked up and I said "What the heck are you doing?" It was all so strange and beautiful. "Helping you change your mind," he whispered, and then he leaned over, tilted my chin up, and kissed me. He kissed me!" She blushes with excitement. "Do you think maybe he loves me?"

"Change your mind about what?" Fleur asks. Neither of us answer Luna's question and Fleur suddenly seems still someone jealous yet happier with Luna.

"About us... about... we want to be together and we're going to do whatever it takes. We have decided to fight for our rights to be together." She says this with a dreamy, scary kind of certainty. "Will you... will you help me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Fleur's point of view:**

I've never heard silence quite this loud. I've never seen Hermione look quite so broken or Luna look so unsure. It's strange, watching their reactions to one another. Luna's feelings tend to elude me, but Hermione's are so obvious. She is an open book, a book that has been well read and loved. Luna knows how to keeps secrets and Hermione can only manage to do so if she is trying to show intelligence or doesn't want to hurt people. Otherwise, it spills out of her eyes like she is trying to share it with you unconsciously.

"I'll help." I shrug, and roll back into my pile of sheets that smell strongly of perfume and washing powder. I borrowed Hermione's washing powder all last year so my sheets would smell like hers. Now that I have brought y own, I cannot decide if I miss it. I shouldn't miss something I can't really have. Hermione hasn't said anything and I wonder if she at all realised how noticeable the way she looks at Luna is. What they don't understand is how jealousy actually works. I don't totally understand either—if I am jealous of him for taking Luna away, of Luna for stealing Hermione's heart, of Hermione for being so perfect, the kind of perfection that hurts. I'm tired of Hermione's perfection and the restlessness it inspires within me. She makes me want to be worse and better all at once. I'm tired of her love for words and phrases and ideas, yet I love that about her. Sometimes, it's okay just to sit back and close your eyes. Sometimes, it's okay not to think. But this is Hermione and somehow I love her in the same ways I hate her. God, I adore her. God, I am jealous of the way she looks at Luna.

I'm jealous. Not of the happiness Luna has or the merriment she is making, but rather of the people with whom she makes merry with. I'm jealous. Not of the fun Luna is having or of the memories she is making, but rather of the people who get to have fun with, like Hermione, and yes, of Luna. I am jealous in a strange way. I am jealous of Hermione for taking my best friend, I am jealous of Harry for changing who I thought Luna was, I am jealous of Luna for stealing Hermione's heart before I had the chance to show her I love her. I am jealous of those who make those memories with them all. I'm jealous, because with Hermione loving Luna and Luna loving Harry, I am left outside. I'm jealous. Not of the places they get to see or the things they get to do, but rather of the people who get to go with them, they are together and linked and I am alone. I have no connected to the love and like that spirals between them. But their love is one sided, so surely I have a chance? I can't help but not believe in Hermione and I. I am outside looking in, holding the longing in my heart. I'm jealous. Not of Luna and yet, yes of Luna, but of the people who are around her and the people who get to see Hermione more than I and the people who get to hear Hermione's voice as she explains Shakespeare and the people who do all these crazy things with Hermione. And the people who get into trouble with her and the people, the people who can physically touch her. Because I cannot touch her. If Luna reached out... Hermione would never stop her. I wonder, what would she say to me? I'm jealous of Hermione's friends, and her enemies, and her family, and her acquaintances, and her strangers, and her friends who are no longer friends. I'm a jealous person when it comes to Hermione. I am jealous because of how quite simply; I am deeply in love with everything about her.

I have no words I could say to Hermione that would make her love me back when she has Luna.

"You'll help me?" Luna asks. Her eyes have no dream like quality left and for a moment I wonder about her. Her art and her designs and the magic beauty displayed in oils and inks and acrylic on the page. I wonder if her sanity leaks out her ear while she sleeps. I wonder how on Earth she projects life on to canvas but cannot accept what is happening here and now. Why will she not just tell Hermione that she doesn't love her? Why can't she just cleanly break her heart rather than watching it bleed?

"I'll help you." I repeat, because if Luna is with Harry maybe Hermione will release I have been here all along.

"I'll help, too." Hermione offers weakly.

"Lovely!" Luna exclaims, paying no attention to the way Hermione's eyes cloud over. "I'm going to go and tell Harry. Maybe we could have a protest: marriage for all!" She looks so alive and Hermione looks the opposite. Luna skips out, muttering about campaign posters and Hermione falls apart. The silence seems alive and buzzing. Hermione looks at me and she knows... She knows that I see how she looks at Luna, why she is crying, she doesn't know that I realised long ago.

"I kept... I wanted to tell you... but I was never sure." She sniffs and cries and I am quivering with emotion. I am lost because when someone you love is hurting and you cannot take away the pain, it breaks you, too. But I am also angry, like the passion that burns through me; I have anger as well as love in my soul.

"You were going to tell me that you love Luna?" I ask boldly. "What were you expecting, Hermione? Did you want me to help you? Do you think you're the only one suffering?" I do not know where this is coming from, what I am saying or why I am saying it. I suddenly hate myself but as she interrupts I know I will not stop until I tell her the truth, because my truth deserves a place in the world too.

"What?" I can see it dawning in her eyes and I cannot shut myself up. I want to. I want to hold her and be kind, but my brain forces my heart into silence and lets the anger of heartbreak spill.

"I want you. I love you. My entire being longs to trace my fingers down your neck, taste your gentle lips, every cell in me yearns to hear you gasp and moan. I don't... that isn't even important because I adore you. I would be happy with a hug. It drives me crazy that you brush me off like a joke, and maybe I am joking... asking you to bed with me is a bit foolish, but God, if you had even considered maybe I truly care, for just a second." My voice began to grow quieter, hushed but it still dipped straight into Hermione's heart, seeking some kind of emotion. "And you cannot imagine how hard it is to watch as you drown yourself in misery, to know that my touch won't make you better and our days are running out. Because one day you'll realise you can't have Luna, but what if you never realise you can have me? I cannot bear watching you day after day falling harder and harder for someone that isn't me and someone that will never love you back." My voice slowly began to rise again on the last line in some sort of desperation. I am not myself at all. I can blame the heartbreak, can't I?

Hermione looks at me. A look is so much more than a look. It's soulful.

"You know and I knew and..." Hermione pauses, pondering in a maddening way. "I love Luna but when I think about you... What if I am mixing it all up? Lust, like and love, it is so easy to misplace. Which are you? I can't do this right now. I think I'm going to be sick." I wonder where her power for explaining has vanished to.

"I make you sick." I repeat monotonously. Her face pales in shock. I wonder if it is practised shock or if I really shock her. She didn't say I made her sick, she said she felt sick... I just can't help but think that is exactly what she meant. I suddenly feel ugly. It's strange, because although I do not spend my days thinking I am beautiful, I know people find me attractive. It's strange because if Hermione does not think I am pretty, why does it matter? Her opinion is the one I have been counting on.

"No—I didn't mean... Fleur?" She calls after me, but I leave her. The very air must be trembling. I ache with overwhelming passion—hate, love, lust, anger, emptiness... everything spins in a vortex I cannot control. I wonder if she hates me, hates Luna, and hates herself. I wonder if I hate her. I don't hate her. I can't, even if part of me wants to. If I hated her, would my heart stop hurting? I cannot make myself hate her or Luna. Luna has been one of my best friends for years. She's quirky and funny and we have scrabble Sundays. How can you hate people you grew up with? It doesn't look like we will be having our game of scrabble later.

"Fleur!" Hermione calls desperately. I run, rush, rampage. I am a raving river, coursing out to sea. The people in the corridor part and I do not pause to consider how I must look, having spent most of the day curled in my dreams. I do not care if there is make-up trickling down my face with my tears or if my hair looks like it is seeping twigs. The course of my river will wash it all away. The corridors flick past quickly, like slides on the projector screen. No one tells me to stop running, no one tells me to slow down. They see my face and they keep walking.

Perhaps the most beautiful things must come from pain. I wonder if Luna calls on painful emotions to create the visions her art work become. I wonder if Hermione does the same for her writing and if my face portrays pain as I dance and twirl to the piano. Tragedy has a terrible wonder all of its own. A wonder I do not want to be a part of and still like watching. I think Hermione and Luna are both romantics. Hermione is our genius and I... I am the hope, the 'beauty,' and I am not good enough. The capacity for hope is interwoven with the capacity to desire. It is the most purely human of the base instincts, every man's greatest triumph and failure in one. I am intimately familiar with loss. I have lost something I did not ever have. It sounds more awful than it should. Who am I to be heartbroken? If I love her with all of my heart, should I not leave her alone?

I am in a sea of dorm rooms and I recognise where I have run to. I knock on Gabrielle's door and swing it open. She and her roommate, Anna, sit together pouring over Anna's art book. Anna's drawings are incredible, but her painting is nothing on Luna. Anna is a year older than Gabrielle and is taking still life classes and choir. Gabrielle takes French language study, poetry classes and weekly ballet classes with my advanced class. She is almost as good as I am and will one day be so much better than me. I am so proud of her. She looks so young right now, in her school uniform already, her long silver blonde hair in French plaits.

"Fleur?" Gabrielle asks lightly. My beautiful little sister, I think fondly.

"Hermione." I say. Anna opens her mouth, as if to correct me, to say "her name is Gabrielle!" but is shushed.

"Let's go get some chocolate." Gabrielle says simply, because she knows Mother and Father never let us. Chocolate will ruin your teeth, they would say, chocolate will ruin your chances of being a ballet dance, it will make you fat and spotty. She guides me from the room, to the vending machines, where we sit on the cold, clean floor and shed tears over our Galaxy bars. I should be comforting her, but then, the older you are, and the less hope you seem to have. I need some of her kind, knowing words. I can't help but wonder, as she tells me I can do better, if there actually is any better than Hermione. I wonder how on earth Luna didn't fall in love with her when she saw the way Hermione watched her, like she was pure perfection.

"Have you ever been in love, little sister?" I ask.

"No and I don't want to be. I see what it has done to you." She says softly. I could weep.

"Not all love ends in heartbreak." I tell her.

"Yours did." She says, offering me more chocolate.

"I know." I tell her sadly. I ignore the calories and take another big bite. My mouth is full of sweet, melting warmth and my eyes are heavy with unshed tears.

"Come on, Fleur." Gabrielle sighs. "We have chocolate, how can you be sad?"

I wipe my tears and don't tell her that I have been nothing but sad for too long. Instead I say "Why are you in uniform?"

"Because I spilled coffee on my jumper and didn't want to waste my weekend clothes."

I sigh. "Go get it and I'll wash it for you." I wish things were always this easy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hermione's point of view:**

Fleur looks so delicate, so scared and lost. I know it's my fault. I don't want to believe or think about all the things she said to me, or all the things Luna told me. Instead I watch as Fleur vanishes down the staircase. She simply flees and no calling or pleading will bring her back. I hope the sun shines and it's a beautiful day—just a little thing to make this better. The weather isn't going to change the fact that Luna is in love with a _boy_**, **Fleur probably won't talk to me again anytime soon and I am so confused I don't know what to do with myself. I just... I have admired Luna from afar for ever so long. I have grown to love the little details of her person. But my feelings for Fleur are difficult to understand. I want things to be easy again.

Instead of lingering on my lack of control over my emotions, I carefully fold myself back into bed and wait. Luna will come back at some point, hopefully not dragging Harry with her. I wouldn't know what to do if she brought Harry back. Would she ask me to leave so they can... No, she wouldn't. It's the first day of classes tomorrow but that won't stop parties in dorm towers and truth or dare games in the attics. Maybe that means it won't stop Luna either. I think about going for a walk. I have always liked the attics, but so many others agree with this liking. It's almost impossible to find an attic that will let you be lonesome. I am unsure of where else to walk to. I want to be somewhere that will not remind me of Luna or of Fleur.

The night starts off quiet but the stillness doesn't last long. I lie in bed and watch the clock. From three in the afternoon to half six in the evening. I sit and I let time pass me. The stillness never does last long, especially on nights like this, where tomorrow means back to the dancer diets and strict control of the paint brush. This is our last night of freedom until the Christmas holidays. Even as people crowd into rooms, drunkenly spilling into hallways with a surprising silence as to keep the teachers who don't actually care completely unaware, I stay hidden in the wood-work of the foundation, looking for salvation and not finding it. Lonesome is something I am accustomed with as even when Fleur, Luna and I are not upset with one another, we all have very different time tables and clubs to go to. It's quite in my room. I stay alone. Fleur flits into the room at one point, catches my eye and soars back out. She was surprised to see me there. The expression "a deer caught in the headlights" flicks across my brain. I wonder why she was surprised. Where else did she expect me to go? I do not call out for her; instead I snuggle deeper into my cocoon of pillows and sniff my tears away. I imagine I find myself smiling at Fleur for no reason and she smiles back with a knowing glance like we are sharing secrets without saying a word. But Fleur isn't here and I do not know how to make this better.

I have not seen Luna since she skipped away to find Harry. It is getting late and I wonder if either of my friends will return. I wonder if I am still allowed to call them friends with the revelations that are slipping out among us. I wonder if I will spend the night wide awake and alone, considering what to do or say and what to feel. If I could choose I would pick to fall in love with Fleur. It would be so much easier for my emotions towards Luna to wash away into the ocean. I do not want to fall out of love with Luna; instead I want her to love me back. But if she is brave enough to tell us about Harry, it must be serious. I wonder what Harry is like. What he does to pass time. What hand he writes with and if he is good enough for Luna.

Everyone is slowly passing out with clouded minds and heavy heads by one of the Sunday night or maybe I should say Monday morning. It is too late but much too early so I slip out of bed and find a spot downstairs in the back room to lie down and rest. I will feel awful tomorrow, sitting in the warm classrooms, but then so will everyone above fourteen. The back room is off the common room, where we keep abandoned sofas and unwanted beds, broken chairs and cracked mirrors. The nonsense room, the room of hidden, broken things, waiting to be fixed, anything that has been cast out of the dorm rooms. I think the back room is truly one of my favourite rooms; it has no lights, no windows. It is just the black of the night sky encasing me. Well, the black of the chipped, painted walls. My chosen spot to lie is soft and squishy, the material of the sofa is torn and sown badly, and yet I feel as if I could sleep for years and just let all the words left unsaid float away. Maybe it is better to leave it unsaid.

"Hermione?" I jump at Fleur's voice, because it can't really be her. But then, Fleur knows me so well, better than I thought she did. But why would she try to find me? If I were her, I wouldn't want to see me. It doesn't seem real that I could have broken someone's heart. I am plain. I am the Jane Eyre of the tale. But Jane gets her happy ending...

"Hello?" Fleur wanders towards my voice in the darkness; her knees hit the sofa and she stumbles so she is sitting next to my hips, facing me. She yawns frailly and murmurs. The silence settles over us like dust collecting on a window sill. I can see her outline and barely make out her eyes.

"Luna is asleep in the dorm, she's okay. I thought you'd care." Fleur says stiffly after a moment.

"Do you hate me?" I ask in response. I do care that Luna is okay. I care too much but I also care about Fleur.

"I love you, which is the problem." Fleur hums and I wish she didn't have to try so hard to stay composed, I wish I didn't make her feel this way. "And you don't love me." It makes no sense in my mind for Fleur to be acting this way. Over the years of knowing her she has been a confident, flirty, funny human being. I remember only twice seeing her nervous—when she took her first dance exam and when she told me how she felt about me, the obvious thing I was somehow missing. But Luna didn't miss it, she knew and she never told me. If she had noticed that, surely she would have noticed how I felt about her? This simply means she was never interested in me. I never had a chance and never will. So why does my heart still weep for her?

"I don't know who I love or even like." I murmur back almost against my will. Is it a lie? Do I truly love Luna? "I'm so confused. I never thought about Luna and Harry. I never knew. I never knew you liked me and I only recently realised that sometimes... I really want to reply to your teasing." The last eight words feel haunting, like a secret I should never have shared. If I loved Luna, surly these words would not be leaving my mouth?

"You want to?" Fleur says, shocked, slightly hopeful. She is not strong and confident. I feel my face glowing ruby in the darkness. It is absolutely silent as Fleur carefully leans towards me. Isn't it crazy how in the quietest places, you can still feel the world rushing by? There is a bittersweet perfection in the pain of a simple wanting. Wanting someone and loving someone... the lines are ever so blurred in my head.

Her kiss is ever so gentle at the edge of my mouth. It is a sweet slice of strawberry, lingering. But this is not what my mind wants from Fleur. I wanted her to kiss me with sounds that cling to our souls, which draw out sounds that are made for behind closed doors. I wanted her to press sweet kisses and hard bites to my throat, to grip my hips and leave welts, then make love to me until her mind is emptied of words. I know now that I_ want _Fleur. Love is completely different. If I don't love her, should I really be doing this? I tilt my head upwards and kiss her because I need her to kiss me back and know she will. Fleur makes a surprised sound into my mouth but immediately kisses me back. I imagine for a moment what it would be like to be kissing Luna but coming up with her bright eyes is hard. I only get Fleur smiling back at me as I melt further into what Fleur is and what Luna is not. Slowly, Luna slips away altogether. Slowly, I wonder if I ever loved her at all. I despise myself. I despise us all for we are fools.

My mind is full of dust. My thoughts cannot be arranged into the correct shape, they are melting, with no form or structure. I could flick through their names in my mind for days, toss coins for my question: Luna or Fleur? If it lands on Luna, I am heartbroken but I can still fight for her. If in lands on Fleur, it is too good to be true, unless my actions have ruined what never begun. But how can it be Fleur if I feel nothing but want? I wonder if Luna would hate me if she knew about this or if she would be happy. I wonder if any part of her ever considered me before she found Harry. What if late at night Luna wondered what it would be like to kiss me? What if when Harry kissed her, she thought of me?

The night slides into the abyss and we fall into sleep. Nothing happened... Not really, a few kisses that will probably change more than I am willing to accept. She will hate me in the morning.

I wake early. I wake up with my shoulder pressed against Fleur's, blushing and unsure. I slowly move away so as not to disturb her. God, she is so beautiful. That night I half fell in love with Fleur whom makes me feel alone yet so alive. It's like when you leave before you decide if you ever want to come back because everything is right there in front of you, close enough to see, but it's also miles out of sight. Loving Fleur could be right beside me but I would need glasses to see it. It was all so unexpected; but then again, so is every other plan God has in store for us. It's too unexpected. I wish I had some knowledge, something more than chance. It is my destiny and I hold the pen. Sometimes the pen writes of its own accord. I wish I was someone else. Then I wouldn't have to pull myself together and choose. Luna or Fleur?

It takes a few minutes to creep from the room, up the cold stairs and into our room. Quietly, I watch Luna sleep. Loudly, I hate myself. I curl myself into bed, creating my cocoon of bed sheets and towers of books. I don't know what to do or what to say. Then I decide. What says it better than a good old fashioned love letter? With my favourite fountain bed and delicate, white notebook paper, I begin.

_I wish I had told you sooner, I wish I had explained. Maybe if I had told you, we would have realised sooner, maybe if I had just said "I love you" then we would have had forever. Maybe this, maybe that. Is it too late? Maybe you'll realise it was me all along. You won't, of course, because it was never me, it was always him. I never noticed, I always thought if I just waited and bided my time, you would realise I loved you. Maybe you don't see as much as I thought. If it all comes crashing down, and I hope it doesn't because I don't want you to ever be hurt, but if it does, I'll be here for you. I am always here for you._

It takes me under five seconds to rip the ashen paper into four quarter pieces. I drop the scraps under my pillow, almost ashamed of having wrote them. This time when I pick up my pen, I don't know who I am writing to.

_I just want to be loved and I thought you were the one to love me. I thought so many things, so many confusing thoughts. How was I meant to choose between two people when one of them doesn't love me back and the other I don't think I am in love with? I want them, but do I love them?_

I rip this apart as well, this time into an unreadable, blurred mess. My bin is slowly filling with cloud coloured confetti.

_Fleur, _

_Luna,_

I scribble the names out messily, ink smudging all over the place. I'm wasting so much paper... Tears splatter, turning the paper crinkly.

_I like how you make me feel, how you smile at me and give me a reason to smile. I like how you hold me when I'm sad and take time off from your clubs and such to listen to me, to help me with my poems, to encourage me. I like that you have such bright, soulful eyes and I like when you look right at me and they twinkle. I like when your hand brushes mine. I like your jokes, your raising eyebrows, and the smell of your perfume. I like you. I might just be in love with you. I think we should talk about this, what it means, if it means something to you, too. If after everything, you will give me a chance. _

I fold the paper, draw a little, clear heart in the top right hand corner and leave in folded neatly on under my pillow after I make my bed. I cannot give it to her. Suddenly I wonder if 'her' is Luna or Fleur. I drop my clothes in a pile at the end of my bed, like Fleur and Luna do, instead of folding it ready for washing, and pull on a school shirt, tie and dark trousers. I don't bother brushing my hair, instead I plait the mess. I don't bother with make-up. I brush my teeth, take a last look at Luna and stumble into the hallway. It's still early. I pass Fleur on the staircase on my way to breakfast. I pass her. I keep walking and leave her stranded, on the staircase, looking after me blankly. It is my fault her eyes are vacant, her wall broken, and her glance uncomprehending and perplexed. She does not call after me; I do not wait for her. Instead of going to breakfast, I sprint to English classroom and into 'poetry corner.' Here, among the words of Emily Dickinson, I feel safe. Here, among someone else's words, I can hide. The text weaves into my soul and I pretend I am not as foolish as those in love are said to be.

In the corner, I take my pen and a clean sheet. I write _"Dearest Fleur"_ at the top of the page and wait for the truth to form. It comes spilling out with the force of a hurricane.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fleur's point of view**

I wake up alone. When you hurt people, they begin to love you less and each time Hermione hurts me my brain says less and my heart just clings tighter, whispering more in such a longing, lost tone that my poor brain sighs and hands over control. When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That's what careless words do. They make people love you a little less. Somehow I love her less and more at the same time. My brain and heart raise their swords in my conflicting inner battle of moving on or hoping.

I never imagined waking up without someone beside you could feel so dreadful, disheartening and dismal. Human beings are funny. The way I act even though I know Hermione could quite easily break my heart is foolish and I suppose funny to some who does not have to feel my pain. We long to be with the person we love and cherish but refuse to admit it openly; we refuse the idea that maybe they like us back. Hermione has to like me back or last night could never have happened. Maybe she just cannot accept that she likes me, too. Luna's love for Harry is secret. Hermione's love for Luna is secret. My love for Hermione is secret. Only none of them are secrets anymore and the cracks in our foundations are beginning to give way. I was afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of this deep, deafening fear. Fear of Hermione's sad eyes and her soft voice telling me it will never happen. Rejection isn't what she gave me. She gave be warm, lingering kisses that set loose butterflies and the heat of the hottest summer sun in my veins. So why did she leave me? Why would she kiss me if she couldn't bear to face me come morning? But one thing about human beings that puzzles me and creates specs of wonder in my mind is our conscious effort to be connected with the object of this love, this affection, this longing, even if it kills us slowly within, because that is what Hermione and I are both doing. I would do anything to be close to her like she would do anything to be close to Luna. And inside our mind, we sob from the pain of it all. Sometimes, even our most horrific cries can remain silent.

I need to shower and find my French book and my ballet shoes and I need to find Hermione.

My finding Hermione consists of her passing me on the stairs without meeting my eyes. I have no words to explain how utterly shit I feel right now. It feels like she and I are standing at opposite platforms, trains are roaring in the distance, blocking our view and stunningly in a fast whirl of carriages she is gone. Because never once did she reach out and stop us spreading further apart. She passes me and I whisper "But you kissed me" and then I remember that kisses don't mean love.

Our room is filled with early morning light. The curtains are pulled shut and September sun is leaking through like water, finding any gap or hole to slip through, coating the room in a yellow glow. Luna is snoring slightly and muttering. Her alarm clock should go off soon and without thinking I climb into Hermione's neatly made bed and pull the covers over my head. It smells like her skin, like her kisses, her breath in my ear.

The blankets are Hermione's arm encasing me. The sense of pre-packaged caring: just like the diners in places love had long since abandoned and where the sweet scent used to seep between cracks in the door and frame. Like kisses on the nose before bed. It doesn't seem like caring, it seems like obligation. Suddenly, it doesn't feel like her bed, it feels like a lie. Now the bed was hard, rivalling rocks; compared to the one that had long since been abandoned, a bed not really there, a bed that was ours in my imagination, collecting dust in a room where the only scent that seeped in was of wretched things thought of and created in minds of vile children whose lovely place had been torn down and burnt to ash. And they were left here in this unknown place to fend for themselves and rebuild the house and grow the garden and pick the flowers. Her pillow rustles and crackles as I fidget to make myself comfortable in the flower bed of lies. And they were left to grow up. The flower bed children and I left alone in the rustling of unwelcoming blankets and shut doors. Whether brought kicking and screaming or with tears running down faces with red noses and eyes and cheeks never peaceful, but swollen like war. And they were left with empty promises and empty hope to get better. When the only thing wrong was the burnt down house that needed to be rebuilt, the house that trust build and doubt leant against. My hand pulls five scraps of paper from under the pillow: one whole piece, one torn in four.

"Hermione?" I freeze. Luna's alarm clock, Luna's voice, the burst of energy. My hand silently holds the paper scraps and I wait.

"Are you awake?" Luna asks. I fight with the covers in response. "I just wanted to talk to you before I went and got ready. Are you listening?" I nod my head though the covers. She says nothing more.

"Yes" I croak. There is a pause.

"It's about Fleur."

Oh, Luna, I think. It's too late.

"I just wanted to ask you... to ask you not to break her heart, okay?" Tears blur my vision. Oh gosh. My relationship with Luna is strange but its kind and although sometimes too blunt and full of some unfunny jokes, it has never been cruel. The loveliness that is Luna shines to me. How could I have been so cold to her and her to me all because of Hermione? This isn't our fault. Can I honestly call it Hermione's?

And then the bathroom door shuts behind her footsteps and I grab my uniform and flee, still clenching the papers in my hands.

I shower in Gabrielle's room while she complains, loudly, that I owe her for the hot water I am wasting by wasting my stupidly long hair. I tie my hair in a bun, slip on my ballet clothes, but not shoes and throw everything else in my bag. I kiss her forehead and give her two pound for some chocolate on the way out.

"Here," she says, giving me a pound back before I leave, "you look like you need some chocolate too."

"Thanks." All I whisper before sprinting, still ten minutes early, to ballet class. Ballet is a form of dance that requires thorough use of technique. Ballet dancers must have this technique and a great deal of strength to be able to do the steps, but also must look graceful and expressive at the same time. We are generally stereotyped by dancing on tip-toes, pink, tutus, spinning around, and being graceful. I think to be it is more characterized by bloody feet, sore muscles, hard work, lots of sweat, time, effort and of course, the beauty of the elegant show we put on at the end of each term. My ballet teacher is called Madame McGonagall, and is extremely strict. I am not the first girl to arrive and she is already mid rant. I head straight to the changing rooms, squeezing the papers into my pocket. The changing room isn't really a changing room; it's a pile of school bags in a corner that has curtains pulled across that always stay closed. The rest of the room is mirrors, bars, wooden floors.

"Albert Einstein calls ballet dancers "athletes of god."" Madame tells the three girls already doing stretches. "Ignorant people do not appreciate the strength and beauty of this high art." I peek round the corner as I pull on my ballet pumps. Cho, Lavender and Katie point their toes in time to her words. A girl walks in and heads over to the changing room quickly, already in her ballet uniform and just wanting to dump her bag and school things.

"I want to see you be more expressive with your face," Madame tells Cho in a quick snap when she sees her eyes gazing out of the window, and then kindly "when you're more familiar with the steps it will be easier for you."

I think of Luna sitting behind her easel and wonder what she is creating, if she has painted the sky red instead of blue. I think of Hermione chewing her pen while her mind spins at the speed of a tornado while her page fills with syntax that will set your skin on edge.

Instead of thinking, I focus. My limbs move of their own accord and I twirl onto the floor to start stretching. My heart constricts at the thought of dancing with Hermione at our imaginary wedding. I point my toes and block everyone. It's going to be a long day. The rest of the class begins to file in. The bell sounds on my first twirl.

"Your ankles look strong enough to go on Pointe," Madame tells Lavender, who smiles gracefully. Lavender is starting Pointe later than everyone else because of an ankle break a few years ago.

"Fleur, brilliant expression," Madame says proudly. I guess my hopeless longing helps in some way. "That would be some good expression for our Swan Lake production. Class, observe." I pause to see what she will ask me to do. "Arabesque followed by Pirouette. Keep expression."

A Pirouette is a turn or a spin around on one leg done on Pointe or on Demi-point and an Arabesque is when one stands on one leg with the other leg extended straight back. Both of which I can do with ease. I think of Hermione and glide through the movements.

"Are you thinking of auditioning for Swan Lake?" Madame McGonagall asks. A few girls exchange glances. Madame's tone leaves no doubt that she is considering me for the lead.

"I think so, Madame." She nods, then motions for the class to continue practising the Allegro she has set out on the white board on the wall opposite the changing room. Or changing curtain really. Allegro are quick moving steps, often containing jumps, performed to the quick tempo of music. She sets the CD player going and we perform in silence with her occasional input and guidance. I move in line with the others, my steps matching the beat as I consider Swan Lake. Swan Lake is a long and very elaborate ballet composed by Pyotyr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. The ballet contains beautiful scenery, elaborate costumes and dances all set to a fairy tell involving princes, castles, sorcerers, and swans. Swan Lake is one of the three great ballets in Madame McGonagall's eyes: The Nutcracker, Sleeping Beauty, and Swan Lake.

Class ends ten minutes early in case we want to shower. I leave it. My hair is still damp as I pull on my school shirt and dress trousers. Beside me, Lavender babbles excitedly about Pointe. I have French later with Madame Maxine but for now I head to the dance common room. It's filled with lost and found dance clothes, shoes, and stage costumes. It's a circle room, and half of it is window panes protruding onto the grass of the south courtyard. On the walls hang photos of famous dancers, audition reminds and times. I take one for Swan Lake. I sit on the window ledge, put away the leaflet without reading the times and take out Hermione's hidden scraps of soul. I suddenly feel awful and then I feel angry. I join together the four loose scraps and read:

_I like how you make me feel, how you smile at me and give me a reason to smile. I like how you hold me when I'm sad and take time off from your clubs and such to listen to me, to help me with my poems, to encourage me. I like that you have such bright, soulful eyes and I like when you look right at me and they twinkle. I like when your hand brushes mine. I like your jokes, your raising eyebrows, and the smell of your perfume. I like you. I might just be in love with you. I think we should talk about this, what it mean, if it means something to you, too._

The next piece is whole sized and harder to get though having read the first:

_I wish I had told you sooner, I wish I had explained. Maybe if I had told you, we would have realised sooner, maybe if I had just said "I love you" then we would have had forever. Maybe this, maybe that. Is it too late? Maybe you'll realise it was me all along. You won't, of course, because it was never me, it was always him. I never noticed, I always thought if I just waited and bided my time, you would realise I loved you. Maybe you don't see as much as I thought. If it all comes crashing down, and I hope it doesn't because I don't want you to ever be hurt, but if it does, I'll be here for you. I am always here for you._

Oh. The second piece is defiantly meant for Luna. But the first? Is that why she ripped it, because she hates to deal with the fact maybe she might love me? I want someone to tell me, warn me, save me from all the unnecessary wallowing, the needless sprawling and meandering and waiting. Because someday everything has to be okay, it has to... doesn't it? So can't you save me? From all the wasted brain space. From everything. A lurking entity to subside the conspicuous sadness, the endless agonizing for someone unattainable, some out-of-reach, hopeless dream. Save me from this hopeless, ill-faded trance that is one Hermione Granger.

I rip a page from the back of my French book and write "_Hermione." _

A taste of your own medicine, I think.


	5. Chapter 5

**I apologise in advance for the lack of posting coming up because I have school again. So yay, studying and revising and lots of homework and exams. I really want to get good grades. My life is so fun. Anyway, I obviously do not own any of Robert Frost's poems I am about to use and I apologise if my French is awful, but I don't do French, I do Spanish so... I tried. Feel free to help with any mistakes. Enjoy. :) **

**Hermione's point of view:**

My first English class of the year is on Robert Frost. His name is scrolled across the board in white chalk curls by Professor Dumbledore, the man who knows everything there is to know about books, poems, authors and essays. Our creative writing teacher, with his half moon glasses, plaited beard and love for sweets is a strange man but I highly intelligent one. He takes a seat at his desk, facing the class of singe desks and chairs with the blackboard behind him. He waits for us to uncap our pens and open our notebooks before speaking.

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words." He says. "A few lovely words of Robert Frost. This term, we shall be creating our own poems from the inspirations of many poets. I have started with Mr Frost and would like you to raise your hand if you know any of his work well enough to recite a few lines."

Ginny raises her hand and recites:

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

I try and focus on the poem but for a long moment all I think about is the feel of Fleur's mouth against mine.

"Lovely." Dumbledore says. "Does anyone know the whole poem?" I don't raise my hand but his eyes flick to my face anyway. No one speaks or offers to recite and so Dumbledore continues slowly. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is the first poem we shall devour. Take notes." He instructs. We already are. "On a dark winter evening, the narrator stops his sleigh to watch the snow falling in the woods. What emotions does this create? At first he worries that the owner of the property will be upset by his presence, but then he remembers that the owner lives in town, and he is free to enjoy the beauty of the falling snow. The sleigh horse is confused by his master's behaviour — stopping far away from any farmhouse — and shakes his harness bells in impatience. After a few more moments, the narrator reluctantly continues on his way. Your turn."

Dumbledore motions to a boy named Draco to offer his ideas. Draco is a light haired boy with silver eyes. He is pretty and somewhat inconsiderate and unforgiving, yet has a gentle manor in his bleak eyes.

"In terms of text, this poem is remarkably simple: in sixteen lines, there is not a single three-syllable word and only sixteen two-syllable words. In terms of rhythmic scheme and form, however, the poem is surprisingly complex." Draco hesitates, seeking eye contact from his fellow classmates, seeking their opinions. We are all equal here.

"Explain." Dumbledore directs with a twinkle in his eye. Draco continues, more confident now. And suddenly I forget the whole of the summer, the feel of Fleur's kisses, the memories, the letter, Luna's eyes and I just let myself love English class.

"The poem is made up of four stanzas, each with four stressed syllables in iambic meter, right?" A few of us nod. "Within an individual stanza, the first, second, and fourth lines rhyme, for example, erm, "know," "though," and "snow" of the first stanza, right, while the third line rhymes with the first, second, and fourth lines of the following stanza, again, for example, "here" of the first stanza rhymes with "queer," "near," and "year" of the second stanza, so this..." He pauses again.

"The reader, Draco, what about the reader?" Dumbledore asks. "Or more techniques?"

Draco makes a note but doesn't continue. I want if Draco loves anyone. I wonder if there is a boy he likes. I wonder if there is a girl he likes and it weighs down painfully on his heart. I find myself wondering about everyone. If we truly had a more open choice... Would there be so many more like Luna and Harry?

Dean raises his hand. "The surface analysis is that Frost is stopping in some woods that belong to a person, or near a person's cabin or house, so the woods belong to somebody else. Frost is saying that the person isn't there and that he's at his house in the village, like you said, yes? But the deeper analysis is that Frost is walking through some woods when they are filled with snow. He really knows that they are God's woods and that God can see them, because it's like an underlying religious theme? However, Frost is not concerned with his being in God's woods other than enjoying them and the house in the village is God in heaven. So it's a metaphor."

"Metaphors, good." Dumbledore sighs. "Are there any more metaphors? What makes a good metaphor?"

I raise my hand. "The woods in this poem are something to write home about. Our speaker can't get enough of them, telling us that "the woods are lovely, dark and deep" as though he were hypnotized, because if these are God's woods like Dean said, then I am sure they are stunningly beautiful. The woods must be very important, very charming and exquisite, because our speaker is compelled to stop and stare at them on the freezing, dark winter evening. There's a mysterious element to these woods as well, that the reader will pick up on, it creates an air of mystery and we get the sense that the speaker is not alone, even though he is very much by himself. This could be God, Dean? Whenever we see woods in literature, we almost automatically see them in contrast to civilization. If you've read The Scarlet Letter, think about the woods Hester Prynne frequents? I think it's a fair comparison. We also think of woods as being mazelike and full of hidden obstacles, like the Fire Swamp in The Princess Bride? In lines 1, 4, 7, 13: Some interpret the woods as an extended metaphor for death and in line 4: Here we see woods as a clear and crisp image as our speaker describes them filling up with snow. So the metaphor could be a lot more that God's house, it is the woods themselves holding meaning."

Dumbledore looks delighted. "There is no right or wrong answer exactly unless one of you feels like comparing this poem to a pair of curtains, but I suppose if you found reasoning... Therefore, you all made brilliant points. Takes notes, everyone, on what you remember, your opinion and of stand out words for analysis then you may leave whenever you are ready."

English class here is like that. We discuss and then we are given time to think, to leave for the last ten minutes if we want to. I wander into the dorm common rooms, half looking for Fleur. I know she isn't here; she'll be lingering in dance until French starts. Luna rarely leaves the art studios once the day starts and so at least I can find her. I set off. You always know when you are heading towards art because suddenly the beautiful graffiti on the walls becomes something a lot more than graffiti. It is so much more than paint and drawings and designs, its life and stories and tales of the past. The corridor leading to the art rooms reminds me of the paintings of the cave men. You are slowly wound into the history of what art truly means. Art is any one of the Divine Languages, including painting, sculpting, music, theatre, dance, and poetry but here you get the visual image of it all.

Luna is in Professor Trelawney's classroom, at the end of the corridor. Before I slip into the silent room, I glance up at the ceiling. The constellations have been perfectly painting onto it. Every surface is a canvas. Professor Trelawney does not look up as I enter, but waves. Luna sits alone in the far corner, by the window, and a few other students are scattered about with their easels. Luna's long blonde hair is in the messiest bun I have ever seen and although out of her face, she has still managed to get a streak of green paint in her hair.

"Hello." She calls in a carrying whisper as I dodge the patches of wet paint shining on the floor. "I thought you would have waited for me to get out the shower so we could have spoken more this morning." I freeze in front of her. She doesn't look up, her paintbrush continues to glide and curl.

"I didn't talk to you this morning because I got up and left without speaking to anyone."

"Oh." Luna says calmly. "I presume Fleur was in your bed then. I may have told who I thought was you not to break Fleur's heart." Luna adds in an absent minded manner. My brain suddenly slows to a leisurely, dawdling pace, slowed by the pure weight of worry.

"If I already did, how can I fix it?" I ask unhurriedly.

"Give it time." She hums. "Do you think I should get a tattoo?" She does a quick swirly butterfly on her hand. "Maybe flying birds across my ribcage." She murmurs.

"Luna, this is important." I begin.

"Do you love her?" Luna interrupts sharply.

"I..." The letter in my pocket feels heavy, the letter that I have yet to sign, yet to hand over, face to face.

"If you don't, leave her alone. If you do, you have some apologising to do." Those are all the words kind, lovely Luna will bestow on me and I realise, too late, that she is angry with me for how oblivious I have been to Fleur. I realise she wants me to be with Fleur, she wants me to stop caring about her. I realise I am defiantly not the 'smart one.' I don't understand completely, I don't think I ever will or ever can. How can I understand anyone else's thoughts completely? Luna's, Fleur's, even my own... I don't know what is going on. I am sick and tired of the pressure my heart feels; the pressure to not break, the pressure to be perfect. Luna may be angry at me for being oblivious to Fleur's feelings but I am also angry at Luna for being so dismissive and uncaring about mine.

"Why are you on her side?" I ask, hurt.

"Sides? Who said anything about sides?" Luna asks, her eye brows raising as she forces herself to keep her eyes glued to her art work. The words continue to spill from her mouth and a dark haired girl in the opposite corner raises her eyes to us. I can feel Professor Trelawney's eyes, her patience with me decreasing. "This is all you and your perceptions of love, Hermione, of what the world really is. Not everything can be broken down and explained, analysed like in English class. Love is more complicated but it's still simple. Its love, it's pure but you—you don't get it okay?" Luna's angry whisper says in a tone of finality.

"What don't I get?" I demand.

"Fleur matters, I matter, and Harry matters. Your little crush on me doesn't because us three—not you, of course—but us three, we know what love is because we fight for it. You stand there with your poetry book and sad eyes like you have any right to be heartbroken over something that never existed. I don't love you, but Fleur does. You made you and Fleur something, you could have left it but you just had to play around with her feelings—" Luna breaks off, glaring at me, meeting my eye for the first time. "If you want me to pick a side, I pick Fleur's." She whispers.

"But... Luna?" I ask brokenly. "Shit. I didn't realise... I just... You're angry with me and you didn't even listen to what I had to say? You don't know how I feel."

"I'm busy. I'll see you later." She says quietly. I peer round and peek at her canvas. Neither of us says anything for a moment.

"Why?" I ask. She has been painting me the entire time. My face, full of sorrow and heartbreak and anger, mixed in with her wild, random thoughts that coat the surface. Around my face, in silky, caresses of paint, the word 'liar' has been scrawled again and again and again. I don't understand. I don't understand at all.

Professor Trelawney coughs slightly. "I think you need to leave, dear, your next lesson will be starting soon."

Standing in the corridor, I realise something.

Luna isn't perfect and neither am I.

I walk to my book study class in silence. No emotions, no words. Just silence. I take a short cut down the languages corridor to get back into English, worried I may actually be late, rubbing my wrist and wishing for a watch. The walls are covered in phases like "hello, how are you?" "Have a nice day" and "I love you." Just simple sentences in every language imaginable.

"I love you." I say aloud, testing the words. I wonder if I have the guts to say them to her face and know I won't.

"Te amo!" a boy down the corridor shouts in response, his eyes are bright with laughter, as people being filing into the halls, making their crossing to new classes and rooms and corridors. I wonder what is so funny, or maybe it's just love, creating a giddy reaction from the adolescents it controls.

"Je t'aime," another voice calls. For a solid moment a string of 'I love you's erupts from the mouths of over fifty students, all in a range of strange and beautiful languages.

"Who do you love?" Fleur asks, standing behind me in the door way of her French class. "Who has won your heart? Luna will kiss your cheek and toss it in the bin."

"En français!" Her professor calls to Fleur. I have just noticed. None of the chatter around me is in English.

"Qui aimez-vous?" Fleur asks.

I pull the letter from my pocket, my hands shaking and hold it out.

"Quién es su amor?" I repeat her question, in Spanish, for I know no French, then I press the paper into her open palms and leave. There is a moment of shock in her eyes as I turn away, a moment of horror and regret, then she slides her hand around my shoulder, and silently pulls me back.

"Why ask a question you know the answer to?" She whispers, and presses a piece of lined, folded paper into my hands. "Love letters or...?" Or what? My eyes coast the curve of her jaw warily, but she gives me no expression. I set my mind to calm, turn, and walk to class. This time, Fleur doesn't stop me. This time, I let myself cry.

I am five minutes late to my Shakespeare lecture. Professor Sprout simply glares and continues.

In the back row, I slide Fleur's note onto my lap.

I open the carefully folded white paper.

I read and then I can't help myself. I get up and walk straight back out of class.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fleur's point of view:**

French has never been the most interesting lesson. I'm fluent, considering I grew up speaking it with my Mother over breakfast, at lunch, at dinner. Family time was in French, the world we spent our free time in was in English. It was strange, but Gabrielle and I simply grew up in both languages. Before I even start Hermione's letter, I wonder if I can translate every word into French. My wonder is just a passing, because, having spent years at boarding school, the amount I speak French without thinking has lessened. Here, speaking in French is saved for class. Sometimes, I miss it. I miss the way the words sounded as they slipped from my tongue. I wish I had more of a chance to speak French. Gabrielle and I rarely converse in French anymore. I wonder if she would be surprised, if she would simply fall back into old habits, if I were to walk over to her and simply say bonjour. I don't want my fluency to fade; I don't want to lose something I grew up with linked into my brain.

I smooth Hermione's letter out on my lap. Her handwriting is so neat and precise and small. It makes me miss her. Somehow, just the look of her words makes me long for her voice.

_Dearest Fleur,_

_Do you remember the day we met? I barely remember, but I have this image of a slim blonde girl with shocking purple earmuffs and bright, sapphire frightened eyes and wondering how anyone that stunning could be self conscious or scared. Then I remember the first time I met Luna and how she asked if she could paint me. I thought she meant my picture but she took my wrist and delicately swirled a spiral of green ink. I was memorised by how Luna acted, her strange, endearing ways. And then there was you: withdrawn, beautiful, alone, your French accent and blunt ways. _

_The first thing you said to me was "why does your jumper have cats on it?" _

_I suppose Luna created a better first impression. Straight away she drew me into her creativity and madness or magic of painting. You insulted my fashion and told me I looked young for my age. I was drawn to you, not just Luna. I never before had friends like you two. I never before had real friends. But you were both ever so different. _

_I am not saying I don't love Luna because feelings don't just go away. But while my feelings about her are experiencing a reality check, my feelings for you have been reconsidered also. I'm not very brave. My eyes coast the curve of your jaw warily now days. Slowly, over the summer months, I found my thoughts wondering not only to Luna but to you, Fleur, to you and the reckless beating of my heart your touch provokes. I tire of the thirst for your touch and then I noticed that it wasn't that at all. Your touch is something you would give me. I could tell you I loved you and you would give me your heart. Then I could break it. I say could but I never could._

_Why do I worry so well, but never seem to feel? What if I want to give us a chance, Fleur?_

_What if I want you to help me get over Luna and show me what love really is? What if... are you willing to take a chance?_

_Yours, Hermione._

French class seems like a weight lingering behind my eyelids. My heart aches. Have you ever been heartbroken? But it doesn't just end there. You hold on with all the little pieces, don't you? And they smile sweetly and crush the remaining fragments to dust. You break again and again and again, hoping just once they will fix you.

"What's that?" I scrunch Hermione's letter into my palm and shrug at the boy beside me. "Doesn't look very French." He mutters. I turn to glare at him. His misplaced anger melts into shock at the heat of emotions shining in my eyes. I don't understand him or myself or Hermione. But I know, even after the pain that blossomed in my heart because of her, I want that chance.

I wonder his name, trying to place his face. Does he love someone? A handsome boy? A pretty girl? I wonder if he makes them feel special. I wonder if he knows Hermione, if he knows Luna and Harry. I wonder what he wishes for, what he dreams of. Around me, around us, the world chatters. A mix of languages and hellos and goodbyes. I wonder what Hermione thinks of my words, or my soul bore for her to see. I wonder if I will walk into our dorm room and life will change. But life slowly already is changing. I glance back at the boy beside me. If the world was different, I would be expected to fall in love with a boy, a man, someone like him. Like Luna had. Maybe Luna was the change the world needed. Or maybe she was a lie, like the rest of us. I don't notice the bell ring. I notice the students rise until I am left. Always alone.

_Hermione, my dear,_

_When you can't sleep at night, do you think about me? It's been years that I have fallen asleep wondering about you. How sad is that? How achingly sad that some nights I sit up and watch you breathe, just to make sure you're okay. You look at me and you don't see me. At least I don't think you do._

_Our kiss obviously either meant a lot more to you than you can admit to yourself or nothing. So you walked past me and watched my heart break. But which is it? I don't understand. You... I can't have fallen in love with someone so heartless. You don't understand how much you hurt me. No matter how much you hurt me... I can't let you go, Hermione. I can't give up on you, I can't stop loving you. Because I think in some way, that's what love is. Second chances and third chances and working together to make it work. True love is a struggle. I think we're struggled enough. In my head it's been such a battle. The pain you caused my heart can only really be healed by you. I don't know how to make you understand. Maybe it's time I let go but I will never give up on you. I can't give up on someone I'm in love with. _

_I cried for you, Hermione. I cried for us. Maybe this isn't for you. But if you don't want to be with me... I need you to give up on me. I need you to be brave enough to do it for me. I can't give up on you, but I'm starting to want to. Give up on us or fight for us. _

_Always, Fleur. _

The corridors are empty. The lunchtime rush sees the canteen, common room and dining room full and leaves the corridors, dorms and classrooms empty. I don't like it. It's like the buildings feel lonesome. Some are full and loved and others are abandoned and lonely. I have an urge to gather up the buildings and hug them like they are my children. But they are not my children; they are my parents, letting me grow inside their walls.

I'm so sick and tired of being messed about. I love Hermione, I really do, but whatever she says, whatever I say, I'm sick of it. I love her and quietly, I am beginning to hate her. Being in love isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's defiantly not perfect, it's not all happy ever after, or fairy tales. Its heartbreak and lies and deep, scared longing for just a simple hug, a small sign of affection, for anything. I miss a relationship we never had. I miss our fairy tale. I miss when being in love wasn't a constant sense of pain inside my idiotic heart and weak brain.

Love and life is subject to whim. It is all simple capricious tendencies that aren't all that simple.

I don't want to do this anymore, whatever _this_ is. It's not fair and god, it hurts. I don't know what this is... Why won't it stop hurting? I don't want to care anymore. My silly weak heart would jump at the chance to be with her and I think I would follow it blindly. That's one of the things that hurt the most. If she said "let's fight for this" I would be there in a second, because I'm stupid and being stupid is the same as being in love.

I'm scared without her.

Instead of heading to lunch, I shuffle emptily to the dorms, planning on skipping my afternoon lesson of ballet theory in favour of sleep. I want to scream because _it's not fucking fair. _All at once I despise myself for my feelings, for her reactions, how she makes me feel, how she makes me love myself and hate myself. Have you ever found your heart's desire? Then lost it? I lost her before I found her.

I unlock our bedroom door silently. The silence is me now. It's wrapped me up in its arms, keeping me safe until I am ready to let out the fuel of emotions in a hysterical round of broken sobs. But the bedroom isn't locked and Hermione sits, a handful of picked flowers—daises and tulips and dying roses—on her bed, waiting quietly, my letter gripped in her hand with a confused expression sprayed across her features. I am not ready for this conversation, for this confrontation. I am not ready to be broken irreparably.

She stands. Her expression is concerned and careful. "These are for you." Some of the flowers have mud around the stems, some look frightened, their petal faces open and alive and yet dying right before me. "I... I'm sorry Fleur. I don't know what I'm doing, and you don't either. I'm a bit lost, but so are you, right?"

I say nothing, I am frozen and my silence holds me, swaying me and helping me fight back the impending tears. She tries again. "Look, Fleur. I want my best friend back. You and me and Luna... Best friends forever, remember?" The silly childhood promise hangs weakly between us.

"I don't want to lose my best friends." She whispers. I wonder what Luna has said to make the word friend plural. I wonder if she will find some water for the flowers or continue to stand there gripping them like a vice, ruining them.

"Can't I fight for our friendship instead of a relationship that might ruin us?" I take the flowers because I do not know what else to do. I just want to sleep so my life will stop falling apart, all the pieces hitting me on their way to hell. I cradle the limp petals for a moment before gently resting them in last night's untouched glass of water.

My voice finds me against my will and I beg into to continue hiding in the dark. "We're already ruined." I say simply.

"How do I fix it?"

"You don't. Not everything can be fixed."

"Luna... she said she would pick you over me." Hermione half wails.

"Why the fuck is everything about Luna?" I ask before I can help it.

"Luna—" Hermione begins.

"No, okay? Luna is having a hard time, I get that! She has to deal with not being _normal_ but even if she isn't normal she has Harry and he loves her and she loves him and she's happy! She's happy with him and not with you so you're going to have to deal with it. Your letter... I don't care, do you know that? I can't anymore. I can't destroy myself based on the hope you might change your mind and love me."

Hermione says nothing so I plod on. "Luna would pick me over you because I don't have an annoying never going to happen crush on her and I would support her 100% with Harry. You only do because you _want_ her, not because you want her happiness. Luna isn't stupid."

"You're a bitch." She flings at me and I flinch. "How dare you—"

"What the hell?" Harry lingers in the door way, surprised by are arguing and piecing parts together. "You like Luna?" He asks Hermione after a moment. "She told me about you, but she never said your name... What was it you called her when you though she wasn't listening? Loony Lovegood? What kind of friend are you?"

"Hello, Harry." I greet awkwardly. "I think Luna is still in art." I add after a glance at Hermione. Tears stream down Hermione's face. I want to tell her she deserves it and I also want to hold her.

"Fleur, right?" He asks. I nod. "Thanks for sticking with Luna and I." He smiles. The look he gives Hermione is icy. "Luna doesn't want to be anything more than your friend, stop bothering her." Then he leaves and I am shocked and Hermione is shocked and I am also incredibly proud Harry had the guts to speak his mind even though I barely know him.

"Everyone hates me but you."

I look right at her. "It's not all about you, Hermione."

"I know that." She snaps.

"I don't hate you." I add gently. Then: "but you're broken my heart enough."

"Are we still friends? What if... you read my letter? What if I have feelings for you?"

"Hermione—this isn't fair. You can't _love_ me just to get back at Luna—that isn't okay."

"Why is that what it is? I'm confused and... You're my best friend." _This isn't fair, this isn't okay, this isn't..._

"What do you want me to say?" I whisper. I want my silence back. I call on it and it shimmies around me, ready for me to step into its arms. I just want to melt away. Please, just let me have silence.

Hermione wipes her eyes and takes me hand. We're both just been standing and waiting and shouting...

We sit down on my bed. I want to curl up and sleep. I want her to leave me alone. I want to hold her and cry.

Gently, like a press of rose petal, delicate and smooth, Hermione kisses me. I'm hesitant and scared but... for one long moment, I don't worry. Then, like a new habit between us, she leaves me alone. But before she leaves, she kisses each cheek, my forehead and my lips once more. Her eyes open and honest.

My stomach is filled with butterflies. And spiders.


	7. Chapter 7

**Luna's point of view: **

Harry finds me in the art room, his eyes emeralds sparkling. He walks across the room like we have all the time in the world and gathers me up in his arms, breathing in the scent of my hair.

"Fleur and Hermione are arguing." He breathes into my ear. I wind my arms around him and sigh.

"Let them get it out." I say. I don't know how to feel anything but grief when considering either of my best friends right now. Just deep grief. Grief is a house where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us, the mirrors how to reflect us, the walls how to contain us. I don't miss Hermione, or what she did to my sanity, but I miss my best friend. I miss back when it was _normal_, when she didn't have this silly crush, when she was opposed to breaking hearts and causing heart ache. I think you could fall in love with anyone if you saw the parts of them no one else gets to see, and I think that's why Fleur cares for Hermione the way she does. Fleur always liked Hermione more than me, but as a friend, she always liked me more. Her liking of Hermione more was romantic, and we both knew it. Hermione just never paid enough attention to the girl who would do anything for her.

"I may of... erm..." I pull away and meet his eyes. Emeralds against sapphire. Sometimes, I still feel incredible awkward about Harry and I. People... Not everyone is nice and that's something you have to accept. I hate that I have to though. It's horrible to think that to some people love isn't love, love can be wrong and ugly and something to hide. And the look on Hermione's face when I told her makes me wonder if, deep down somewhere in the black of her heart, she agrees.

"Harry?" I ask, worried. I worry about so many things suddenly, all at once. I hate the feeling of loss that shudders down my soul. Sometimes I just don't feel whole.

"I told Hermione off a bit." He kisses me on the nose and shrugs. I just, I really love when he kisses me on the nose. "I was tired of her upsetting everyone." Frustration scuttles into the crook of my open heart. There's so much to say, but there are no words to say it.

"It's okay." I say and he relaxes, but I secretly allow drops of worry to skim down my spine for Hermione.

"Have you had lunch?" He asks, changing the topic easily now I have forgiven him. When you're in love with someone forgiveness comes so easily. You can't help it. Love blinds you to any faults, any real mistakes. You take their mistakes and you kiss them away because God, you love them with everything that you are. I love you, I whisper deep in my heart and Harry's eyes sing it back. Forgiveness is a part of relationships. But what if they do something you can't forgive? I look at Harry, awaiting my answer, and I know. For some people, you would forgive anything.

"Yes, I had pudding."

"That's not lunch." He tickles me.

"Shush." I disagree with a wide smile.

"I'll let you get back to painting... I'll meet you in the library after dinner?" He asks.

"Of course." He kisses me and leaves, with a warm smile and bright eyes.

Instead of painting, I wait a long moment then drift after him from the room, and instead of moving towards the dining hall, I sway up the stairs looking for Fleur. I find her easily. She's almost asleep, curled up soundly in her bed. The curtains are wide open. Dirty, beautiful flowers weep from the glass on her bedside table. She yawns in response to my wave and squeezes her eyes together, like she is blocking out a memory, before opening them fully and meeting my eyes.

"Harry said you two were arguing." I state quietly. Arguing seems so... dreadful and appalling and unpleasant. It seems gloomy and distressing and miserable, because it is and because it leaves you unaccompanied in sadness.

Fleur shrugs. She nods and frowns. She seems so bewildered at the idea.

"I'm sorry." I say sincerely.

Fleur sits up abruptly. "Screw her. I can be happy without her."

"But you don't mean that." I say gently and she sags again, like a turtle crawling back into its shell to hide.

"She kissed me. Again." She adds as if considering the weather. Her mood feels haphazard.

"Again?" I say before I can help it. Once more, again, yet again... Why again if this means nothing?

"Last night... In the room, you know, the one filled with nonsense, and today she brought me those flowers and kissed me and said she was confused but Luna—I can't deal with her confusion and my own. I don't want this... this heartbreak and torrent of feelings."

I don't know what to say. Instead I pick up the flowers and gracefully toss them out the window. And Fleur—she grins like I just told her it was Christmas morning.

"You skipping dance theory?" I ask. She nods. I suppose heartbreak is silence... when you try to speak, everything shatters again. But I suddenly find myself missing Fleur's voice. I miss the long nonsense phone calls we had over the summer—never once did we mention Hermione. For once, it was just our conversation.

"Can you stay?" I consider this, then pull the curtains to a gentle close and climb into my own bed. She peers at me, eye dim and skin pale. "Thank you. Tell me about your day? About you and Harry?"

I begin to talk, rambles, no hint of prose or perfection. Just the beauty words grip shakily.

"I don't really know how Harry and I began. It's like magic. One day, our silence was too loud. Our eyes would catch and I would blush. He would smile and neither of us would look away. I remember thinking if only he was a girl, then this would be okay. This meant I had to question what this was. This was the magic. This was something worth breaking some rules for. Why should there be rules about love, Fleur? That's not fair... You can't help who you love. I think if I could have chosen someone to fall in love with it would have been you. It's a shame really. Maybe then you wouldn't be heartbroken, I wouldn't be in a secret relationship and Hermione... I don't know what's going on with her. She's lost, I get that, but she's ruining you too. Harry and I are going to have to really fight for our happy ending. But you know, you know love is worth it. If it wasn't you would have given up on Hermione a long time ago. Love is priceless. Sometimes, Harry is the only reason I get up in the mornings. I mean, my life isn't perfect, who has a perfect life? Some days are so hard, so empty, so lost, and I need someone to hold me up and keep me strong. Harry is always there, ready to catch me, but he doesn't have to. He never lets me fall."

Fleur succumbs to sleep somewhere in-between commas. It is like I have told her a beautiful bedtime story. When I am sure she has drifted far off into the clouds of dreams, I stumble out of bed and fix my creased covers. A smudge of paint is on my pillow, and a trace of mud from my shoes lines the sheets. I don't remember the last time I got into bed, suddenly so tired with the world, I could not even bare to pause and remove my shoes. But for Fleur, the removal of shoes was not my priority.

I consider going back to the art rooms and filling a wall with butterflies and lyrics, creating a mess of lines and colours in a space that will never consider graffiti anything but art. The art corridor is beautiful, nothing more, nothing less. It's a creation of many souls, many idea, many materials, all spread out and interlinked on the walls, ceilings, doors and floors. The art breathes with us. I breathe in art. But Fleur sleeps on and the art can wait. Instead, I go to wash the paint out of my hair.

Our bathroom is cold, and I imagine snow drifting from the ceiling as I close the door behind me quietly. I pause and listen, but Fleur sleeps on. I just hope the noise from the shower doesn't bother her. It's dark in the bathroom; there is a small window that opens on a latch in the corner, above the sink, which is on the left wall as you walk in. Above the sink sits a cupboard which holds our toothbrushes—mind is purple, Fleur's is green, Hermione's is red—our toothpaste, mouthwash and make-up. Beside the sink, in the right corner of the left wall, sits the toilet. Along the right wall and some of the back wall, is an odd shaped shower, like an L shape but more curved? The walls in the shower are tiled pale blue, while the rest of the room has been painted creamy lavender. Next to the door, and the shower, as you walk in are a small set of draws made from wicker, holding tampons and new bottles of shampoo and headache tablets. Hermione organized it, so it's very neat. In the corner of the shower, at the centre of the L is a metal holder for our shampoo. We each have our own self. Mine contains cinnamon body wash, rose shampoo and conditioner, a razor, and a lime flannel.

I leave myself in the dim light, choosing not to turn on the artificial sun that bleeds colour from the room. The dimness of the bathroom is inviting, and creates a feeling of warmth as the shadows copy my movements. I let the shower run on full heat while I undress. Steam fogs the glass walls of the shower and coats the mirror on the back of the door. I decide that second to not go back to class as I dump all my uniform in a pile and move into the burning heat of the shower.

I watch the razor for a moment. It feels alive for a moment, like it is waiting to make me bleed. I remember all the times Harry has saved me from myself and turn my face into the burn of the water. My skin turns red under the blistering heat. I wonder if my flesh could sizzle from my bones. I turn the scorching flames of water down to dull warmth and feel my skin shudder in the aftermath of the dull burn.

"Luna?" Fleur hums through the door.

I stand with my back to Fleur as she wanders in, half asleep, half crying, and her face open and honest like always. She freezes; as if suddenly aware I'm in the shower. It's comically really, as I glance over my shoulder and quirk an eyebrow.

"The Fleur I know would have invited herself in by now." I tell her. "Or at least made some saving water comment with a good old wink." It is not like we do not brush our teeth while one of us showers if time is short. But Fleur just looks blankly at me for a moment before forcing a smile to her face.

"Sorry, are you suggesting I am a flirt?" She sniggers. She hastily turns to the sink and I watch as she splashes icy water on her face.

"I didn't realise you were in the shower." She says and I remember sometime last year, walking in on Fleur singing her heart out in the shower and her throwing soap at me in surprise while I clutched my toothbrush in defence. Our tears were of laughter. The tears now are completely different.

"Fleur, its fine... what's wrong?" I manage.

Her sobs almost cover the sound of the water running. I slip out of the shower, pulling a towel around me and holding out my arms. She almost runs at me, sobbing. For a moment I wonder if I could hear her heart break and then we stumble back into the stream of cooling water. We stand together—me in my towel, her in full uniform—under the flood and weep for ourselves, for each other, for the horrible thought that one day; we'll be nothing more than a story. One day... this love might be worthless.


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the afternoon is spent in our pyjamas watching the sky. The sky is endless and watches us back, never leaving us to be consumed by sadness. Luna and I lay in our beds, side by side, our heads propped up my pillows and eyes trained on the slowly darkening sky. I turn to face Luna. My eyes are tired and sore from crying, and Luna's eyes surrounded by a faint purple—a reminder to her every time she looks in the mirror that the dreams are winning again. But it's the colour of Luna's actual eyes that I love. Little oceans I could drown in.

I'm so tired of crying that the sky has decided to do it for me. Rain spits against the windows quietly, a steady rhythm of hopeless drifting drops. Luna raises her head and meets my eyes. It's so silent.

"You're going to have to go to all your classes tomorrow, you know? Don't let this ruin your grades. You're better than this. You're well on your way to being an amazing dance." Luna says softly. "In fact you're already brilliant, it's just getting a role in something, get your name known. You could really be someone in that world, Fleur; you could be this stunning dancer than thousands would cue to see. The future is just around the corner."

"I might be getting the lead in Swan Lake." I murmur. "But that's just for the parents and school governors, I think."

"It's a start." She beams. "Harry and I will be there, clapping and cheering you on." The silence overlaps again and the rain continues. The rain is the heartbeat of silence's baited breath. Luna's smile only lasts a few seconds and then her eyes darken. She turns her face back to the sky that is fading into lavender clouds, the rain clouds dark purple, like a drop of dark paint among the fields of violet. Her eyes could almost match the violent wine rainclouds, with a splash of the bluest night sky.

"Haven't you been sleeping well?" I ask almost without thinking.

She suddenly looks so tired and fragile and I will my words away. "Not really. Hopefully now we're back at school I'll be able to slip back into habits, hmm? Sleeping should come easily when I have a long day of classes to wear me out."

Sometimes I remember I am the oldest of the three of us, and this is one of those times. I have let a girl a year younger than me break my heart and I have let a girl two years younger than me become scared of what her own mind dreams up. I did not save her from herself. At the moment, Hermione and I are both eighteen and Luna is seventeen. But my ninetieth birthday draws closer and the end of my life here is spiralling ever faster. This is my last year in my home, with my two best friends... Luna looks so young in this moment and I remember she will spend her last year here alone—without Hermione, or me, or Harry. Hermione's last year will be a few months of English prep and exams. She may even leave before Christmas. My dance exams end in February and after that I am to be placed in work experiences courses my dance teachers have set up for me in the hope one of them will offer me a job, or that if not the experience will be enough with my grades to get me one.

Luna, class wise, is exploring. That's what she always say when I ask her how class went. "Oh, I just explored." I think by this she means to explore her soul on paper through her talents. She's doing coursework, a whole big project on souls and mortality and life. She has art books full of experiments and ideas, a box full of crazy sized paintings and sketches and models. She's taking many forms of art—I've seen her exam list sheet—like she has a five hour exam in which to create a final piece from her sketch book ideas, her coursework is graded, she takes a pottery class, a sowing class, an understanding artists class... I don't know how she finds the time for it all or how she has the energy to be nothing but creative all week. Our creativity spills out of us in many ways. Hermione's bed is surrounded by books, old and new, Luna's is surrounded by paint bottles and smudges of chalk, and there is always something randomly colourful and alive in Luna's space. Mine is always messy. I rarely make my bed, my dance clothes sit at the foot in an uneven pile, my ballet shoes are tangled, my headphones twisted, and my scripts dog eared.

Luna yawns, and shifts, pulling her covers around her. "Just don't wear yourself out too much, okay?" I whisper but suddenly she is asleep and suddenly the rain's heartbeat has faded to nothing. Somehow, her floral pyjama top already has a smudge of paint on the collar. I wonder if it's a stain. A reminder that will never leave your side. Luna's creativity stains her.

I feel myself sliding into the abyss of sleep and faintly realise we're both going to have missed lunch and dinner. My stomach feels hollow, like my heart.

It's past nine when I awake. Luna sleeps fitfully, her fists clenched in her blankets, yet her face seems calmer than normal, and she has managed to stay asleep for longer than I. Luna's side of the room is dark, and in the middle mine is in the half light of Hermione's lamp. I twist to check if she is awake, or even there, and am surprised to find Hermione tucked up on her window ledge with a book. One of her legs hangs perilously from the window. I keep my eyes on her form for a few more moments. She shivers slightly, and turns. As she does so, I simply close my eyes. Her gaze grazes my body for a moment and a deep, painful sigh leaves her. I keep my eyes closed and allow myself to drift away once more. I feel safe knowing Hermione is watching over Luna and me sleeping. I wonder If Luna feels it, too.

I dream I am in Luna's art class. Luna, Hermione and I sit in a triangle, each with a canvas on the floor in front on us. I sit and I stare. It is not nearly enough for me not to wonder how Luna and Hermione are. Luna's slowly fills her canvas with the both beautiful, haunting crows. Each feather looks alive and I care far too much. I am clumsy with my heart, with my words, with a knife. Hermione's canvas is filled with prose and poetry: words. They cut like knives and if anyone can make them do so, it is Hermione. I don't know how to bare my soul in a single whisper. How do I translate my dancing to my canvas? How do I show that I have a soul, too? My soul is worthy of love. I have to show them, I have to make them proud. I want to be enough, for people to swoon over my writing or my art. But since I cannot, they can't either. They can't understand and neither can I. Beside me, I take a pot filled with stunning cobalt paint and start to coat the bottom of my ballet shoes with it. I slowly lace them up and Luna pauses to watch. Hermione halts her writing and peers with interest. I dance across my canvas, my shoes leaving a trail, a pattern, my repeated steps and leaps. I dance Swan Lake and Luna, like she promised, claps and cheers for me. Hermione simply lets rivers of azure to run down her cheeks.

My canvas breaks and I awake. Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day.

Hermione's bed is made neatly, her bag and school note books gone. I wish she would have said good morning. Luna sits on the end of her bed, plaiting her long sunshine hair.

"I'm going to meet Harry... I was meant to meet him last night after dinner but..." She bits her lip, worried.

"He'll just be pleased you slept all night for once." I tell her. "I'll see you at lunch." She skips off with nothing more than a wave and already, I am alone. I don't know where to go or what to do or... I don't know a lot. My classes consist of exam prep, ballet, and a study period. None of them are very tempting but, after leaving my afternoon class yesterday in order to cry after Hermione's mad, heart consuming, mind wrecking rush to find me flowers in the hope to save us and break my heart at the same time, I cannot miss another class. Like Luna said, I cannot let my heart ruin my education, my dream, my hope. I have to carry on fighting for it.

I skip breakfast and my stomach barely protests. I learn, I store, and I leave. Lunch is a quiet affair. Until, oh, until.

Luna skips in beside Harry, their eyes glued to one another. They look so in love in that moment. Harry's hand brushes the back of hers; she leans into them as they join the cue for the help yourself salad bar, relaxed and at ease. But no one else is. I realise a little too late what they are doing. They're not hiding. Harry's arm wraps around her waist as they gather their trays and I am not the only one to notice. It's so beautiful. It's right there. It's golden and shining and it is love. I hope they see it for that, but I know they won't. At the other end of the room, Hermione half stands then sits again, her eye brows raised. I see Draco whisper to Pansy, I see Pansy giggle and she says a little too loudly "God, Potter's gone soft." Draco snaps something inaudible back. I strain my ears but his words are lost. He's looking for someone, not for me, but for someone.

"I can't believe he's even touching that girl..." another adds. It feels like the moment pauses. Luna and Harry haven't even been overly affectionate but straight away, they know the whispers are for them. Instead of parting, they step closer together. Luna's eyes meet mine at the next words. We both freeze. Freezing becomes a theme. Just waiting to see what will happen next.

"It's disgusting." I look at the cracks in the walls, in the ceiling, like slowly the world is falling apart, too broken and tired to carry on knowing its inhabitants know nothing of love. Is it disgusting? Is love?

A whisper gathers. I stand, suddenly, violently. My movements remind me of gun shots, or your body jerking back in surprise, surprise at the pain, at the blood, at your involuntary gasp, tears, jump, shock... My movements are blunt. I take a single step towards them. Eyes turn to me for a moment, then back to where Luna and Harry stand boldly, their hands interlinked. A boy next to them, Seamus, catches my eye, holds up his hand like he's protecting me from _them_, like my distress is caused by _them_, and leans over to speak, his hand still slightly raised as if ready to protect me from their horrible act of love.

"Come on, Potter. Just get a boyfriend, don't be a freak." Seamus mutters as discretely as possible into the silence. A murmur of agreement circulates.

"Shut up, shut up!" I snap. My first shut up is soft, but my next gains momentum and creates silence. Silence is too loud, don't you think? Hermione drops her fork. I had not noticed she'd just carried on eating, like the girl she claimed to be in love with wasn't standing there, pale as snow, eyes glistening with tears. I wonder what on earth she is doing. We both agreed, regardless, we would help Luna. I feel... disappointed. Now is not the time to ignore the look of terror swelling in her eyes. Now is the time to be honest about love and what it means. Love means more than gender. Love is for personality, for the whispers of words, for day in and out.

"What, you want a boyfriend, too?" Seamus spits at me. "Ew, God. It's spreading." Suddenly, I have caught this _disease,_ too. I start walking calmingly towards them. I have no idea what I'm doing. No one stops me. Harry pulls Luna to the side as I reach them and then turns to face Seamus.

Time freezes while Harry breaks Seamus's nose. The punch connects and there is an audible crunch. Red gushes everywhere. He coughs, blowing more crimson from his nose as he hunches forwards trying to save his crisp white school shirt.

"You git." He breathes.

"You deserve more than that. You all do." Harry says. And then half a jacket potato slaps the side of Luna's face. It would have been comical, I suppose, if it was just a fun start of term food fight where its teams or year groups and we're all laughing and throwing peas but this... This is trying to hit the _diseased_ kids with whatever you can. Luna ducks a second later as peas, plate and all, fly at our heads. I flinch out the way, tugging Luna towards the door. Beans splatter down my shirt, mashed potato hits Harry's legs. I try to catch someone's eye. Someone I'm friends with, someone I sit with, anyone. But the food keeps coming and so does the insults.

I see Draco unconnectedly stand and leave through the back doors. I see Hermione duck her head towards the table, not looking anywhere but her water glass.

The three of us flee, Seamus limping after us covered in scarlet, and cheers erupt. Seamus pushes past me, muttering about seeing the nurse, and we are left in the corridor as the cheers fade into nothing. We exchange glances. Nothing needs to be said. Tears shudder from Luna and slowly, we head outside into the pouring rain. We stand. It's so simple. Too simple. What words are there?

Slowly, the sky changes from grey to lilac and we wonder inside to find warmth, No one speaks to us.

Not even Hermione...

It's been hours now and we all change our minds again. One moment Harry and Luna are leaving, the next they refuse to abandon their home. We huddle on the floor in our bathroom, Luna, Harry and I. Time bends our ideas, twists our senses, replays and replays the dreadful moments. But life goes on and so must we. We just don't know where we are going yet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hermione's point of view**

My choice is made for me. I don't quite understand what or why or how. Everything is so touch and go, my heart is full of fate and pain and wondering and a lot of it is my entire fault. I have been reckless with more than one heart. And so I don't knock on the bathroom door, I don't disturb the hushed whispers. I don't break what left of themselves they cling to. I don't break the hope, the reassurances, the lies, the beautiful lies. I don't break the words with my silence.

Life is dark grey and I leave them to it. You know... I don't like myself for doing it. But could I have helped? And I have to accept. If I _really _loved Fleur, if I really loved Luna, I would have saved them from themselves, I would have saved them from myself, I would have saved them from the laughter. If I really loved either of them, I would have at least tried. But I didn't try. I sat there and I wrote letters and I kissed a beautiful girl whose heart I broken and I messed with the feelings of all of us, of myself, of Luna, of Fleur, of Harry. I swirled hearts and fates together and I let emotions become pain. And then I walked away and left my mess.

The corridors are silent, as am I. I am walking away like this is nothing and really, it is. In the bigger scheme of life, does it mean that much? I know it does and I walk on regardless.

Luna has Fleur and Fleur has Hermione and Luna has Harry and Fleur has Gabrielle and I have no one and they don't have me either. They don't...

I walk out of the school gates. I call my mum.

"Hermione?" She questions, probably thinking the worst.

"Mum? I need to go home. Please." I beg.

"Darling, what's going on, what about school?"

"I... I just want to go to the local sixth form, I want to stay near you and Dad, and I want to work with you and live with you and be safe. And I want to write. I'll pay you back for everything one day. I will. But right now I don't want to be here... I'll still get my A-levels and degrees. I just want to be _home._"

"Give me an hour. I'm on my way... Hermione? Whatever happened—I am proud of you. I always will be and I will always stand by your side." I nod, even though she cannot see me. A tear leaks as we say our goodbyes.

I keep walking.

I am walking away because right now I will only make things worse. I am walking away because right now they need each other, they need to grow and accept and heal. Fleur needs to heal from me; Luna and Harry need to heal from the taunts and laughs. I need to become a better person and I cannot do that when my heart is undecided and my laughter is forced, when I wake up with heartache and headaches and blurry memories of regret.

One day, Fleur will be a famous dance, having shows that Queens and Kings attend. Imagine, Fleur in the royal ballet. A wonderful future waits for her, one that I do not deserve to be a part of. One day, Luna will be a painter. Her word will hang in great galleries, shows will be put on of her sculptures, and postcards will be sold with a print of her finest painting. Children will learn her name in art class. I do not deserve to be part of that.

One day, I will be a writer. My name will appear in bookshop windows and I will use it. Once upon a time, I read a novel called _Atonement._ My lies... they did not cause as much pain as that scared, naive, little girl, but like her, I have done things for which I must atone. Running is another added to the list, but running saves us from further heartbreak. Running becomes an atonement that needs atoning.

One day, maybe we will all forgive each other. I doubt we will ever forget. I am sorry.

**Ten years later**

_Dear Hermione,_

_One day, many years ago, you wrote me a letter. You asked me if I was willing to take a chance. And then you ran. After that day you always reminded me of the moon. Only rarely did you show you face, your soul, but... when did we really see all of you? Did we ever? You were hidden from us and your leaving showed that. I never expected you to stand up for Luna and Harry that day, I never expected you to offer me a chance. The first one, you didn't do because we were young and selfish and you were scared. The second one you did because you were young and reckless and hopeful and believed in love. I don't know if either of these acts portrays the real Hermione. _

_Luna and Harry got married last year. It was beautiful, honestly. It was like magic. We tried to find you, we tried to invite you. I only found your mother's address last month and she told me where to find you. We did want you there. Luna wants us both as bridesmaids. She forgives you, she says, and I quote because she's helping me write this "There was nothing to forgive, our hearts made us fools and you did what you could to make it right." I guess that's why you left. You couldn't make it better, but if you left at least you wouldn't make it worse. But god, we missed you every day. Your heart ruled your decisions so much back then, and I don't doubt it still does. I hope you have learned to take your brain along with you now days. _

_Hermione, please meet us again? I know many years have passed... I saw your book in a shop window. I brought a copy. Maybe you could sign it for me? _

_Write back. We can have lunch one day. You can come to one of my shops or Luna's galleries? Let's be us again. _

_Good luck with the book. Luna and I... I think you can guess how we feel. We understand._

_And if that chance is still up for grabs...? Let's begin again. _

_Love from Fleur, with a side of Luna and Harry. _

_**Three sided coin—a novel**_

—**For Luna and Fleur, I had to find you**

—**Hermione Jean Granger **

_Dear Fleur, Luna and Harry,_

_I am so sorry for leaving and I am so glad you found me. I'll be there, for lunch. I will. My fool of a heart still speaks for me often, but nobody said it was easy. Running taught me a lot of things, and you have taught me it's okay to go back to the start. The book let me explain, let me revisit and be honest. And your letter let's me make true amends. Let's start again. _Let's begin again_. Let's be friends, like good old times, before hearts had any say. We all have a lot to talk about. _

_Always your friend, _

_Hermione. _

Let's begin again...


End file.
